


Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

by copernicusjones



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: (in dialogue/Freddy's thoughts), (only a few but they're there), Drinking, Drunken Flirting, First Kiss, Identity Issues, Jealousy, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Slurs, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: Freddy's already learned all kinds of things from Mr. White about this upcoming heist, and just criminal life in general.But he's also learning that Mr. White knows Mr. Orange better than Freddy himself does—which makes it insanely difficult for either Freddy or Orange to not want to know White better.Alotbetter.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 73





	Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MANGAMANIAC666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANGAMANIAC666/gifts).



> This is my belated effort for National Creamsicle Day (August 14th)! This was also a collab with **MANGAMANIAC666** who did some amazing art of the guys based on a scene from the fic, which you can find [here!](https://supernovajazzy-art.tumblr.com/post/626726472431878144/i-had-so-much-fun-doing-this-late-creamsicle-day)

This isn't the sort of bar Freddy would frequent. Hell, he's not even sure Orange would wanna hang around here. It's got nice packaging, but from the inside it smells, feels, even _tastes_ seedy.  
  
White's interesting though. Talkative, sure, but Freddy's known a lot of guys who can yap away without much to say. White doesn't just _talk_ , he _tells_ Freddy things. Stories. Yarns, really.  
  
And it's not just listening to him. Watching him too. Under the dim, smoke-filled haze of the bar, Freddy can't take his eyes off White. Alright, maybe that's not simply due to White's story-telling ability. It's because of a sly smile slid his way when White's bantering with the bartender—like he _wants_ to make sure Freddy's paying attention. Or the hand on Freddy's knee, the solid warmth that coasts up just a little too far when White jostles him and says he's cutting out to the men's room, and will be right back.  
  
Freddy is mesmerized. Buzzed, too, but mostly mesmerized. He's _enamored_ , if he's anything at all, with how White is making this job, this whole _life_ of crime and violence and unpredictability sound... romantic. Not like, the two-of-them romantic but just like, some fuckin' Hollywood shit. Sure, there's rough edges but someone like White, he can smooth it away, no problem, with his charm and his decisiveness. And if that doesn't work, there's always the business end of his gun, that can take the edges away altogether.  
  
He's so busy staring in the direction of the restrooms that he flinches when another whiskey coke's set in front of him. The bartender, who's skinnier than Freddy with choppy cherry-red hair and a nose ring, is pushed up on her toes and leaning with her elbows on the counter. If White were here, he'd be face-to-tit with her non-existent cleavage. She looks over at Freddy, her glossy lips peeling back to reveal a gap-toothed grin.  
  
Freddy returns it with a wry smile of his own, fidgeting with the tumbler. “I didn't order another.”  
  
“No, but he woulda, when he came back. I'm just keeping on top of things, sugar.”  
  
Freddy's pretty oblivious when it comes to girls, he'll admit that much—mostly because he doesn't fucking _care_ how interested they might be. But the way her eyes rake over him is pretty fucking unmistakable. The same once-over she was giving White a few minutes ago.  
  
And the same scan Freddy's been giving White all goddamn night. But his hasn't been quick. He's let his gaze linger, stall on the smirk White pinches around his cigar, or on his throat as the whiskey goes down. On his bicep where the fabric of his tee is scrunched up.  
  
Freddy tries to say “yeah” or “okay” or “alright” but it just comes out as an unintelligible mumble. He sips at the whiskey coke, drinking it because White's buying. He can't drink whiskey neat, like White, and even with the soda, it still burns going down.  
  
“You givin' him a hard time, Teena?” White asks as he takes his seat in the stool next to Freddy.  
  
“Nah,” says Freddy, as nonchalant as he can be. “She's not.”

“Just gonna tease him about bein' a lightweight, s'all.” Teena gives him—or White? Both of them?—that toothy smile. But when she winks, it's definitely at Freddy. “But he's hangin' in there. Showing it who's boss. Just what I like in a man.”  
  
_Me too_ , thinks Freddy, slipping in a sidelong glance at White for the millionth time. He downs the rest of the whiskey coke in one go. Jesus Christ, it's like someone set fire to his throat. He almost croaks it up, tears pricking at his eyes. His first thought is, _fuck you I'm not a lightweight_ , and his second thought is if Johnny Storm could handle this shit, if that Human Torch thing extended to every facet of his being, and the whiskey would act as an accelerant.  
  
God, he hates how flighty he gets when he drinks. He's already prone to checking out, to thinking of the world in terms, metaphors relating to his favorite superheroes and villains. Alcohol makes it worse, and the last thing he needs tonight is to be _Freddy_.  
  
Orange... now, what would he be like with a few drinks in him? Cockier, chattier than usual? Aggressive, maybe.  
  
“You alright there, pal?” White asks, turning in his stool.  
  
_Or flirty_ , Freddy considers, conscious of White's leg grazing his, from how they're angled towards each other.

“Yeah, man, I'm fine,” Freddy says, and then mentally kicks Orange to continue. “I'll have another. Since he's buyin'.” He nudges the empty tumbler in Teena's direction, and slings a grin at White.  
  
Teena gives a chipper response that she'll be right back.  
  
“Who said I'm buyin'?” White bumps his shoulder to Freddy's.  
  
Freddy shrugs, tries not to look too proud of himself. “That's just what Teena told me.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” White chuckles under his breath. “And you believed her? Sounds like she's tryin'a get you drunk.”  
  
He's supposed to be subtle—but he can't be both that and natural, like what Holdaway's been squawkin' at him about. Natural wins out, in the form of a stupid smile and a very authentic, very unattractive laugh.  
  
“Yeah? Why'd she wanna do a thing like that?”  
  
“You tell me.” White drops his voice; it's liquid and warm, more intoxicating than the liquor steadily thrumming its way through Freddy. “Handsome young thing like you, surprised she hasn't dragged you off to the restroom for a quickie.”  
  
It's at this exact moment that Teena reappears with Freddy's whiskey coke. Freddy immediately takes a sip, just for an excuse not to reply. He can feel White's eyes on him the whole time... until he has them on Teena.  
  
“Here you go, sweetheart. Cover the bill plus one more for the road, yeah?” White lays out a stack of bills that Teena quickly takes. “Keep the change.”  
  
Teena goes to help a new customer on the other end of the bar, and Freddy reaches for the wallet in his back pocket.  
  
“How much I owe you?”  
  
“Hey.” White waves him off. “Don't worry about it. Like Teena said, I'm paying.”  
  
Freddy doesn't have to ask White if he's sure—there's no questioning that he is. It's what makes him such an exceptional criminal, the conviction with which he carries himself; how he follows through on what he says, be it promise or threat. Freddy, as a cop, loathes this trait of White's, except he's Orange, and Orange fucking adores it.  
  
Shows as much with the smirk he wrings out as he downs more of his whiskey coke. Doesn't even burn anymore—more of a tingle, that fuzzed-up feeling like when you try to walk with your foot asleep.  
  
“You tryin' to get me drunk?” he asks White, only half-expecting an answer and not a dismissive roll of the eyes.  
  
White throws Freddy's earlier question back at him. “And why would I be tryin'a do that?”  
  
And Freddy does the same with his answer. “I dunno. You tell me.”  
  
Orange—because Freddy would never be this brazen—finds White's ankle with his foot. Rubs at it in what he thinks is a suggestive way but might just be more like a cat trying to get attention.  
  
Well, it gets White's attention, that's for fuckin' sure. He uses his foot to push back, letting out a quiet smokey laugh.  
  
Freddy thinks back to White's comment about Teena pulling him into the men's room for a quick heated fuck. But it's not Teena he's picturing slamming him up against a stall partition, loosening his belt and yanking his jeans down.  
  
He shifts uncomfortably on the stool. Not just because of this image, but because he really does have to visit the restroom. Unsurprising, with how he poured down those whiskey cokes.  
  
Freddy's overly aware of his movements, and with great deliberation so as not to appear drunk, slides off the bar stool. He adopts Orange's pointed tone, taking care not to slur his words as he tells White, “So... 'm gonna go take a piss...”  
  
White still has that broad, engaged smile intact. “I'm getting' you drunk so you can take a piss?”  
  
“No.” Freddy can't keep from laughing as he backs away. “I mean, _so_ , I really _do_ gotta take a piss. And I'm gonna.”  
  
When he gets to the bathroom, Freddy locks himself in the handicap stall. Yeah, he needs to piss, but he needs to think too, and most of all, he needs to _fuckin' get it together_.  
  
As fun as it is, he's not here to dick around with White. Not here to _flirt_ with him. Well, maybe he is, if it _gets_ him anywhere, but he already knows all he needs to about White—about _Larry_ ; his past in Wisconsin, and then in Sacramento. There's nowhere further _to_ get, nothing more to know. Just wait it out, relay anything pertinent to the heist to Holdaway, and above all, _don't_ get too chummy with these creeps.  
  
White's not his friend—so why can Orange talk to him like he is? White seems to know Orange even better than Freddy does, asks him questions and teases him with jibes that Freddy snatches away and pastes into Orange's background, to make him a little less Freddy-ish.  
  
He's met his quota tonight, of Orange-building. He doesn't need any more pieces collected from White, who seems ready to go, anyway. There's still another week and change until the heist—he's been more than friendly enough, especially with White, that it's best to balance it out, take a step back.  
  
Freddy washes his hands, shakes them dry because there's no paper towels. He'll just waltz back out there, as Orange, and play it cool. Like that footsie didn't happen, like he wasn't half-hoping White would've followed him in here and railed him inside the stall. Nope, nuh-uh. Buzzed Orange is a flirt, Freddy decides, but he's not a (complete) slut.  
  
But Freddy's never settled on if Orange is the type to easily make jealous—it's not something that's come up.  
  
It comes up now.  
  
Teena's talking to White, cradling his hand in hers and tracing her index finger along his palm. They don't notice Freddy approaching until he's at the stool, casually reaching for his whiskey coke like he's not feeling about ready to shatter the tumbler.  
  
“Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt,” Freddy says, a touch of hostility trickling out.  
  
They both glance at him, White visibly humored by it. Like Freddy's joking around.  
  
Freddy takes a swig of his drink. Shrugs. “No, go on; pretend I'm not even here.”  
  
“Don't get your shorts in a knot, kid,” White says. “She can do you next.”  
  
“ _Do_ me?” Freddy repeats.  
  
“I do palm reading on the side. Tarot, too.” Teena runs her finger slowly from the base of White's thumb to his wrist. “Your friend here's got a _loooooong_... lifeline. I'll read yours, if you want. It'll reveal how easy of a time you'll have moving forward.”  
  
Freddy scoffs, looking down into his glass. Swishes it around. He's very tempted to tell her to read his middle finger, but refrains. “Yeah, I don't believe in that shit. Just a buncha carney tricks.”  
  
“Why don't'cha give it a go?” White asks. “Maybe you'll learn somethin' about yourself you didn't know, huh?”  
  
Freddy glances up. The irony of White's words—because there's so much about Freddy that _White_ doesn't know—is not lost on him, despite his inebriated state.  
  
He sets aside the last swallow of whiskey coke. “I said I'm good.” His jacket is laying across the barstool, and he fishes his cigarettes from the pocket with way more aggressiveness than should ever be required. They fall, and he curses as he snatches them back up off the floor.  
  
“You sure?” White asks, and Freddy can only think he's being mocked.  
  
“Yeah.” He adjusts the jacket back over the stool. “Just uh... gonna go out for a smoke.”  
  
“You can smoke in here, hun.” Teena says, voice tinkling like windchimes. He can't even begrudge White for wanting to fuck her, and that's what's the most irritating. Hell, he'd played around with what Mrs. Orange looks, acts like and it's not too far off from Teena.  
  
Freddy doesn't bother with a reply. He's out of the bar in seconds, cigarette already to his lips.  
  
He'd _almost_ felt guilty for not notifying Holdaway or anyone else that he was going out with White, but now he's glad; who fucking knows what they'd think, seeing him storming out like this.  
  
It'd been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, not a planned meet-up at the warehouse with all the other guys. White calling him—must've gotten his number from Nice Guy Eddie—to see if Orange wanted to grab some drinks. Freddy'd been too amped up about it—he's _in_ , they're coming to _him—_ to vacillate over the consequences of anything going wrong.  
  
But nothing's _gone_ wrong; he should be in there, as Officer-Newandyke-as-Mr. Orange, monitoring White's every movement, every word, including the flirtatious ones he tosses at Teena. Instead he's out here, Grade-A loser Freddy, stomping around the dingy alley behind a bar and being nothing but a disastrous combination of stupid, gay, drunk and horny.  
  
As if to prove this, he reaches for his lighter and... it isn't there. It's still in his jacket, or probably on the fucking floor from when he dropped his cigarettes.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, _fucking shit!_ ” The cigarette falls, and Freddy shoves at the dumpster, coming away with a suspicious brown-black streak on his palm. He wipes it on the nearby rail. Jesus, he can't catch a break...  
  
“You forget somethin', junior?”  
  
Freddy turns to find White nearing him, waggling the lighter in his hand.  
  
Freddy straightens up, like he hadn't just been trying to fight the dumpster. Tries not to show any vulnerability, because Orange probably doesn't even think he _has_ any. He pulls out another cigarette, shows it off. “No, I, uh... like I said, I'm just comin' out here for a smoke.”  
  
“Hell of a way to go about it without your lighter. Here.”  
  
Freddy sticks the unlit cigarette between his lips and readies his hands, expecting White to toss the lighter.  
  
Instead, White closes in on him. Flicks the lighter and offers it.  
  
Freddy dips his head down, letting the flame catch. Doesn't pull back immediately, peers up, knowing he'll see White's gaze locked on him. When he straightens up, takes that first, heavy exhale, he doesn't stop looking at White. Can't. Wonders why it's more thrilling than unnerving to be standing here, alone together, watching White watch him.  
  
“So what's gotten into you?” White asks. “Never seen you like this, tighter than a nun's asshole.”  
  
“The job.” Which is the truth, however small, and once Freddy dislodges that, it all comes tumbling out, words slurred and tripping over each other. “I-I mean, you make it seem so easy—you don't even talk about it. I thought we were gonna talk it over or somethin' tonight, but all you've been tellin' me is stories... and like, they're fine, they're great, you know, I'm not complaining or anything about getting to know you, I get it. But it... I mean what about you, huh? I know you've done all kinds of jobs like this before, but you're telling me you're not worried?”  
  
_Fuck_. That was a mouthful. And was supposed to be a load of bullshit, anything to not address what's _really_ been nagging at him. It's what he's kept pent up, unable to say to Holdaway because he knows he'll just get accused of whining when he's just voicing what any reasonable human being would be, were they in his shoes.  
  
White studies Freddy, sounding genuine when he asks, “Worried? 'Bout what?”  
  
“Gettin' caught. Hurt.” Both Orange's and Freddy's biggest fear, for wildly different reasons. “Yeah, okay, and not because I'm _scared_ but these other guys, I can't control or even begin to guess how they're gonna handle any of it. I know, I know: Joe picked 'em, and that should be good enough, and I don't gotta be best friends with 'em or anything. But I'd like to think I could at least trust them.”

 _These other guys_. The other officers who are supposed to be staked out close to the warehouse. Who would be here tonight if Freddy had bothered to inform Holdaway; he wants to trust them, but “They're professionals, Freddy. They know how to do their fuckin' jobs,” isn't a hell of a lot of reassurance, because what the fuck else would Holdaway say? “No, Freddy, they're gonna let it all go to shit”?  
  
“And you're not sure that you do? Trust 'em, that is.”  
  
“Do you?” Freddy asks, almost begging.  
  
“I trust _you_ ,” White says, and it stuns Freddy.  
  
Orange, though, not so much. He _enjoys_ White's company, loves picking his brain about past jobs and hangs on his every word when it comes to his observations about the world at large, and all the people in it. He trusts White, not because he _has_ to but because he just unconsciously _does_.  
  
“I won't leave you hangin', kid,” White goes on. “Won't let anything happen to you; I was in your shoes once. If you told me you weren't afraid 'bout any of this, I'd call your bluff.”  
  
A smile twitches at Freddy's mouth, and he takes a slow drag of the cigarette.  
  
“But you gotta trust me, too.” White places a hand at Freddy's shoulder, solidifying what's already a charged connection between them. “Which means bein' honest with me.”  
  
Oh, _fuck_. Freddy blinks, would-be smile faltering. _Don't be defensive_. _Make him point it out—it'll give you more to work with, to debunk any suspicions. You're good. You're cool._ “What, I mean, we can only tell each other so much. You know that. Joe's rules.” And— _thank fucking God—_ Orange can't stop himself, and takes over. “'sides, I don't think you could handle it if I were _completely_ honest with you.”  
  
“Real fuckin' cute, tryin'a play all coy like I didn't see you all wound up because Teena's battin' her eyelashes at me.”  
  
“I wasn't...!” He shrugs off White's hand, tries to assert himself by squaring his shoulders. He's sure it doesn't do much. “Hey, she's just one chick; you think I give a shit if she wants to screw you? I mean, good for you, right?”  
  
White laughs, a noise that careens around the deserted alley. “You really think I wanna take another run at that broad?”  
  
“ _Another_?” Freddy's voice spikes up in pitch, and he laughs too, a disbelieving bark.  
  
“Yeah, laugh it up,” White says. “But I already had a piece of that, and wish I could give it back.”  
  
Freddy's gone from being jealous to extremely amused—and hardly eloquent. It's funnier in his head than when he actually responds with, “So palms aren't the only thing of yours she's read, huh?”  
  
“I know what you're getting' at, but that doesn't make any fuckin' sense.” White isn't annoyed; on the contrary, he's nearly as amused as Freddy. “Since we're doin' this honesty thing, then lemme tell you: she didn't 'read' jack fuckin' shit. She didn't do much of anything, was nothin' but a fucking starfish.”  
  
And now Freddy _really_ laughs, and, sure, he probably wouldn't if he didn't have all this alcohol rushing through him, and _what the fuck_ why would White would tell him this? To deter him from going after Teena? Well, no issue there. Or, this is what guys— _friends_ , who trust each other, like what White said—talk about. At least, guys other than nerd supreme Freddy Newandyke, whose last meaningful conversation with another guy who wasn't a fellow police officer was with the hot new clerk at the video store he'd unsuccessfully tried to hit on, by asking for recommendations of movies anything like _Strangers on a Train_. Guy chatted with Freddy for a solid five minutes thinkin' he was talking about some shit called _Strangers in Paradise_. By all accounts, a complete failure but very par for the course when it came to Freddy's attempts at social navigation.  
  
_This_ , however. Holy shit, if Holdaway could see him now, shooting the shit like he _belongs_ with these fuckers, or at least with White...  
  
This is seriously funny, but in an ironic way. White, talking about the girl he fucked, who wants to fuck Orange (or White again, she's not picky), who would probably fuck her too if the absolute _idiot_ posing as him would quit thinking about getting fucked by White—it's some tragic Shakespearean shit, to be sure, some bizarre love triangle except like, a little more than a triangle and definitely not love. Just three-sometimes-four people wanting to fuck.  
  
Freddy's hand is to his mouth, fore- and middle finger steadying his cigarette as he utterly _fails_ to hide his laughter.  
  
“Oh, I'm glad this is such a goddamn hoot for you.” White shakes his head, like he can't deal with this shit, but doesn't retreat.  
  
“No, that's not—!” Freddy manages to smother his laughter, but a smile remains. “It's just, what, with our stupid code names and all—it's pretty fuckin' funny thinking about her just... you know, flopped out there begging 'Mr. White'...”  
  
“So you're thinkin' about that, huh?” White chuckles, and the question sounds almost rhetorical. Like he's not even mildly surprised—or offended—by what Freddy's just told him.  
  
“Wha—... well, no, I wasn't... wasn't thinking _about it_.” He takes another drag of the cigarette, partly to attempt an air of casualness, and partly to give himself time to cobble together a respectable, non-questionable answer. All his shit brain can come up with is, “Like, in detail or anything. Just ah... hypothetically, y'know?”  
  
“Well, _hypothetically,_ ” White's voice, already low and demanding Freddy's full attention, drops another measure. “There's only one person right now I'm thinkin' about saying my name while I fuck them senseless, and I'll give you a hint: it's not Teena the whore.”  
  
Freddy's smile vanishes. He can't move. Like, _literally_ can't. The rail is to one side and now White's arm is caging him in on the other, a hand propped to the brick wall. That, and his jeans having become _incredibly_ restricting, limiting his movements.  
  
“But go on, _Mr. Orange._ ” White's back to a conversational tone, drawling Freddy's—Orange's—name out, a mockery. It's the first time Freddy's heard him say it, not “kid” or “buddy” or anything else, and immediately, he wants to hear it again.  
  
“Go on...?” Freddy mumbles around the cigarette. He must look like a deer in headlights, more fearful than a criminal caught in the act.  
  
“Yeah,” White says. “You think it'd be so hi-fucking-larious, the idea of someone sayin' my 'name' while I fuck their brains out, why don't you go on and let me know what that'd sound like. Then I'll decide if it's as fuckin' funny as you think.”  
  
White is—should be—terrifying. He could knock Freddy through a wall if he wanted to. Is out here calling Teena a slut eight different ways but would rip the nuts off any jerk-off who might get too handsy with her. The guy has a long fuse, but Freddy doesn't want to be around when it's ignited.  
  
The thing is, Freddy never expected he'd be the one to have something lit, sparked inside him.  
  
He can smell White's cologne mixed with the sweet cigar smoke still clinging to his shirt. Can feel the residual burn of the whiskey as he swallows, reminding him who it's from. _Nothing_ about this trips any alarms, does anything but make his pulse accelerate with... it's not fear.

It's anticipation.  
  
The cigarette hangs limp, barely wagging as Freddy finds the answer that's been here this whole time. It falls out, not an act, but a hoarse, desperate plea. "Mr. White..."  
  
White eliminates the space between them. He tweaks the cigarette from Freddy's lips, turns it around to take a drag. Smoke flags from his nostrils, creating a hazy frame that only makes him appear more dangerous in the dark alley. That only makes Freddy harder.  
  
White laughs, a short, coarse puff that emits more smoke. Then he considers the cigarette, just for a moment, before flicking it away. Freddy clenches both hands in White's shirt, backing against the wall as he smashes White's mouth to his.  
  
Surprisingly, White's as sloppy and frantic about the kissing as Freddy—at first. Once Freddy's hands shoot to White's belt, start pawing at the buckle, his fly, what's prominent beneath it, White locks his grip around Freddy's wrist, stops him. Takes control.  
  
“Listen, kid...” The grasp on Freddy's wrist is carefully released, and White lifts a hand to his face. Draws his thumb along Freddy's wet, kiss-swollen bottom lip. “Not back here, alright? Let's go to my place.”

Freddy can only nod, but Orange wants in on this too. “Yeah, kinda hard to starfish against a wall— _ow_!”  
  
That earns him a playful poke to the ribs, and White hauls him away from the wall, shoves him in the direction of the street.  
  
“Go get in the car. I'll grab our jackets, be right out.” When Freddy doesn't agree one way or the other, only keeps grinning at him like White's temporarily abandoning him at his own peril, White hurries back to him and curls his sturdy fingers around the back of Freddy's neck. Leans in millimeters from Freddy's mouth, lips brushing as he tells him, “ _Behave_ , you little fuck.”  
  
Freddy doesn't giggle, but what comes out of his mouth could be mistaken for one. He pulls the threads out from their earlier exchange. “An' why would I wanna do a thing like that?”  
  
White huffs through his nose. “You sure you're alright, like... this is cool with you?”  
  
“What, you think I only turn into a fag when I drink or somethin'? Hell yeah, this is alright with me.”  
  
“And you ain't gonna get whiskey dick on me?”  
  
“Uh, no... that is... _no_. Definitely not gonna happen.” Like Freddy's gonna say otherwise, at this point. But he tries to grind up against White, as proof. “Seriously, man: no starfishin' tonight, I can promise you that much.”  
  
“Oh, and after all your little jokes, I'm supposed to take you at your word?”  
  
“Yeah,” Freddy and Orange say. “You just gotta trust me.”  
  
And White's already told him as much, that he does, but the full, slow kiss Freddy's brought into seals it.

**Author's Note:**

> Ummmm I have nothing to say other than that Gay Disaster Freddy Newandyke is tremendously fun to write. Creamsicle is love, Creamsicle is life. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated <33


End file.
